Poirot's Chronicles - Hercule Ch. 05

***** A great many people have undertaken to portray Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but in my opinion, none has done it as well as David Suchet, star of ITW productions of Poirot. It is his image that I use as my visual and those of Hugh Fraser (Captain Hastings), Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) and Philip Jackson (Chief Inspector Japp). ENJOY!
*****

Poirot put on his pajamas and slid into bed, his mind buzzing with his encounter with Joceline. Oh, she was so beautiful! And the way she looked when he kissed her: eyes closed, nostrils gently flaring. And her mouth was so soft and her tongue so gentle. "Oh, Lina." His hand slid across his chest, just as hers had done not thirty minutes earlier, targeting his nipples. She had whispered how much she'd like to run her fingers through his silky chest hair and he had melted at the thought. Now, he imagined her mouth on his nipples, her tongue teasing the tiny nubs.

His cock hardened painfully against his pajama bottoms and he unbuttoned the pants, allowing himself to spring free. He wasn't well-endowed but he was proud of his 6½ inches and its girth and his hand gripped it at the base, giving it a long strong upwards as he imagined that it was her tiny hand instead. A low groan slipped from his throat and he stroked again, squeezing the pre-cum out and coating the head with it.

A deep tingle ran the length of his prick, making his toes curl and he hissed in pleasure, tightening his fist and stroking a little faster. The fat mushroom head bounced against his fingers, slick with his juices and he drew his hand upward, giving it a hard squeeze before stroking down again. He felt his release building, hot and sweet, coiling around the base of his spine and drawing him tight like a piano wire. He couldn't breathe; the sensation was so strong that he could only whimper stroke for stroke, breathless with anticipation.

"Ah, mon amour. Lina!" His cock jerked in his palm and thick strings of semen pulsed across his stomach, each accompanied by a short moan. After the fourth, he took a deep breath and let go. Just then, a knock rang on his door and the agitated voice of Glynnis sounded from the other side.

"Mr. Poirot?"

"Uh, yes?"

"There's a telephone call for you from Scotland Yard. ‘e said it's urgent."

"Give to me one minute." He dashed into the bathroom and hurriedly cleaned his cum from his belly and hands, threw on his robe and slippers and opened the door. Glynnis gave a short curtsy, a kerchief around volumes of her red hair. "Where is the phone?"

"Just in ‘ere, sir." She led him into a small study and Poirot snatched up the phone. "Hello?"

"You're a hard man to find, Poirot. Having fun with the tony set?"

"Good evening, Chief Inspector Japp. How can I help you?"

"We've got another dead one. This time, it's Sister Evangeline. Almost the same as Sister Bernadetta. There are signs of sexual intercourse but she died from smothering."

"Anything missing?"

"Yes, but Sister Lilia won't say. She said that she'll only talk to you."

"I was under the impression that I offended her during my last visit … "

"Ah, yes." Japp laughed at that. He would never have imagined that Hercule Poirot could offend anyone. "She told us about that. Very loudly, I might add. But she insisted that we were still officers and that she wanted to speak with the great detective."

"All right, Japp. Hastings and I will see you at the orphanage tomorrow."

"Thanks, Poirot."

Poirot hung the receiver back on its cradle and turned to thank Glynnis, pausing when he realized that he was alone. He shrugged, sighed and left the study, heading back down the hallway to his room. On the way, he took a fork in the corridor and went the wrong way, heading past Joceline's room. He knew it was her room because her lovely gown had been hung outside for the maids to fluff and package for travel. Poirot stepped in front of the portal, raising his hand to knock and stopping when he heard voices inside.

"What's the problem? I just don't understand." The answering voice was deep and muffled and Poirot couldn't hear what was said. "Then why did you ask me here?" Another response, short and sweet. "That's not fair! That's not fair at all! What did you expect from me?" This time, the response was louder, but the words were still unintelligible. "All these years, I've never asked you for a thing! Not money, not a thing! And now you accuse me of being here for that?" A few more words. "No, just leave. We will be leaving in the morning any way. You can pay us then."

He heard the creaking of the floor as someone approached the door and Poirot hightailed it into a dark recess of the hallway, watching as a tall figure stepped out and headed the opposite direction. Joceline came to the doorway, quickly glancing both ways down the hall. Poirot fought the urge to gasp as her eyes fell upon him and he got the impression that she saw him. Hanging her head, she shut the door and the light under her door was extinguished.

Poirot stood in the shadows, his eyes watering as he battled with his conscience. He wouldn't have felt any different about her had he not heard the conversation but now, now that he'd heard it, his detective instincts exploded into wakefulness, leaving his emotions far behind. What did the lovely singer Joceline Tarrant have to hide and to whom was she speaking?

The heart of Hercule Poirot shrunk back into hibernation, the Belgian silently cursing himself as the realization sunk in that he had allowed his passion to override his intellect. Never again, he said to himself as he retreated to his room. Never again.

*****

" … and I thought that the way she vocally phrased the song was just wonderful! Didn't you think so, Poirot?"

The detective scowled, desperately trying to ignore his associate's words. Hastings was in a rare mood this morning, liberally heaping his plate with soft scrambled eggs, kippers and fried potatoes. He had seen Joceline across the room, chatting with guests and was still as smitten with her as he had been the first time he'd seen her.

For once, Hastings quit speaking, realizing that his friend had remained silent the entire length of his conversation. "What's wrong, old chap?"

"Nothing, Hastings." Poirot forced himself into motion, setting the steel lid aside and gazing in at half-jelled eggs. His stomach turned. "Are the eggs good?"

"Don't try to change the subject, Poirot. I haven't been friends with you for all these years not to realize when someone's changing the subject." Hastings moved closer to his friend, the intensity of his voice dropping. "And I know that the way you felt about Miss Tarrant last night is definitely different than how you feel now." He set his plate down. "So what happened?"

"Nothing, Hastings. Just as I said." The detective spat, elbowing past the captain and heading into the crowd, hoping to get lost. Unfortunately, his movement had caught Joceline's eye and she met him in the middle, her smile nervous.

"Good morning, Hercule."

"Good morning, mademoiselle< />."

Joceline noticed the coldness in his reply and knew that he had been the person in the hallway last night. Her heart dropped in her chest and she stammered, "I-I was just going to grab a little breakfast."

"Enjoy yourself then." He turned his back on her, intent on heading in the opposite direction but her hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Yes, you are." She stepped a little closer so that her words were for his ears only. "You know what? Forget it. I thought we had started something wonderful but I see that you're just like the rest of them." She paused. "Everyone has a past, Hercule, including you."

Her words sent a knife through him and he whirled to address her, distressed to find that she was already gone. His eyes searched the crowd, desperately trying to locate her but her beautiful fall of black hair and baby blue dress was nowhere to be found. He ground his teeth and began to edge out to the hallway when Duke Wilmouth's voice rang out over the gathering.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?" The crowd immediately quieted with just a few murmurs of continued conversations. "I wanted to do this last night but my son came to me and said that there a business emergency and he had to leave. I asked her what her name was." Laughter filled the space and Poirot smiled, the mirth not reaching his eyes. "But seriously, you have all known my son, Wesley, for as long as you've known me and I hope that you will join me in supporting his bid in the next general election! May I present to you, the next representative in the House of Commons, my son, Lord Wesley Wilmouth!"

A roar of approval rent the air and a handsome young man entered the room, shaking hands as he moved through the crowd, heading for the podium. Lord Wesley greatly resembled his father, in both stature and looks and the picture of them standing next to each other was a perfect father/son portrait. Poirot's attention was tugged to the doorway where Joceline stood watching quietly. Her eyes met his and she turned away, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

Poirot watched her leave, his heart breaking with her every step and Hastings patted his shoulder. "You're making a big mistake letting that one go, Poirot."

His usually quick wit defeated him at this moment. "Let us go, mon ami." His voice was soft, his hurt running deep. "The chief inspector is waiting for us."

*****

Miss Lemon stood outside the door, looking in on her motionless employer. Every day, since Poirot and Hastings had returned from Wilmouth's Fall Gathering four weeks ago, the Belgian detective had spent most of the morning and afternoon staring aimlessly out of the windows. She heard the door behind her open and she glanced back to see Hastings entering, removing his hat and coat as he approached.

"Good morning, Miss Lemon. How is our patient today?"

"The same, Captain Hastings. He hasn't moved a muscle!" She whispered, still staring at Poirot. "He can't keep doing this every day!"

"He has a broken heart, Miss Lemon. He doesn't know how to react."

"You do not need to stand there and speak about me as if I am dead." Poirot said softly, slowly turning to look at his friends.

Hastings and Miss Lemon glanced at each other and stepped into the office, both clearly uncomfortable. They had always looked to Poirot for support or comfort and it was strange to them to be on the opposite side. "Sorry, Poirot." Hastings sat on the couch while Miss Lemon remained standing. "We just figured that you were so deep in thought … "

"Not so deep in thought that I could not hear you."

"Sorry, Mr. Poirot, but you've been moping around here for so long … "

"I do not mope, Miss Lemon!"

"Poirot, you haven't moved much from this office since Joceline … "

"I will thank you not to mention her name, Hastings."

"Why?"

Poirot turned around, staring at his friend. "What do you mean, why? Because I do not wish to hear her name!"

Poirot glared at her for a long moment. "But what if I do not want to take this painful journey?"

"Then you remain alone." Her eyes grew pink and watery. "And lonely."

Hastings fished an envelope out of his pocket, along with a small box and laid it on the desk in front of the detective. "I think you should read this."

Poirot read the addressor and addressee information and looked up at his friend. "How long have you had this?"

"She sent it to me two weeks ago, when she reached Paris."

"Why didn't she just send it to me?"

Hastings sighed. "She was afraid that you wouldn't accept it."

Poirot looked down at the envelope that had Hastings' name written on it in an elegant hand, then very carefully, very reverently, he pulled out the sheaf of oatmeal paper.

Dear Captain Hastings,

Please forgive me for not saying goodbye to you but my band and I had to leave early to make sure that we were not late for the train. You were so kind to me. I thank you for that kindness. It was so refreshing to find such individuals as you and Hercule that were willing to see past the color of my skin and wanting to get to know me.

I'm writing this letter partly to thank you and partly to ask you for a favor. Hercule and I … well, our special friendship didn't end as well as I'd hoped and I … forgive me, Captain Hastings. I have never felt this way about anyone before and I think that Hercule feels the same way about me. I know that his reputation as a detective requires him to be on guard all the time but I had hoped that he would remember that we are all mortals on this planet, that we all have past lives and secrets. It seems that I do not qualify.

I have enclosed a small gift that I purchased for Hercule. I would greatly appreciate it if you would be so kind as to forward this on to him with my deepest regards. Maybe he and I can reconnect in the future. I am hoping so.

If you are ever in Paris, please look me up. I have permanently reserved two tickets in the hopes that you and Hercule will come to see the show.

Sincerely, Joceline Tarrant

Poirot didn't dare move for a moment once he'd finished reading the letter. His hands were shaking, his chest felt tight and his pince-nez had fallen, leaving his eyesight occluded and rapidly darkening. With thick, clumsy fingers, he opened the flat box, pressing the tissue flaps aside and lifting a handsome monogrammed money clip from its cotton bed.

"Oh, Mr. Poirot!" Miss Lemon breathed.

"I say!" Hastings exclaimed.

Poirot let his fingers run along the sides of the golden item, deep in thought. He imagined the smile on her face as she placed the box in his hand. He felt the heat in her hands as she touched his cheeks, her fingertips playing along the line of his mustache. He tasted her sweet lips when she leaned forward, pressing her soft mouth against his. He closed his eyes against the thoughts.

"It doesn't have to be too late, Mr. Poirot." Miss Lemon whispered. "She's given you an open invitation."

Hastings watched the change in Poirot's face. "What do you say, Poirot?"

The great Belgian detective slowly arose to his feet and turned to the window, the money clip in his warm grasp. "Miss Lemon, if you please, book us two tickets for Paris."

*****

For the fifth time that day, Joceline caught herself stroking the rose that Poirot had given her during their Ball. She would never have expected such a man to be so gentle, so passionate. Blood rushed to her cheeks when she remembered the warmth of his hands on her body and tears curdled in her eyes. Are you thinking about me, Hercule? Are you missing me as much as I miss you?

She sighed deeply and returned to applying her make-up when there was a knock on the door. "Come in."

Ellie, the stage manager stepped in. "Hi, Lina. Just wanted to stop by and let you know that the spotlight is fixed."

"Oh, good. Thank you, Ellie."

"You're on in twenty."

"Thanks." The door shut again and she turned back to the mirror, gazing at her reflection. Her face was beautiful but her eyes were sad. Maybe that was why she was singing torch songs instead of something more uplifting. She set the brush down and rubbed her forehead, fighting tears that threatened to explode. There was another knock on the door and she sniffed, dabbing the tears away. "Come in."

Again, the door swung open, but this time, it was not Ellie. Poirot stood there, his hat and cane in hand. His eyes met hers in the mirror. "Hello, Lina."

She couldn't help herself. She jumped up and flung herself into his arms, sobbing with relief when she felt his arms encircle her, holding her tightly. "Oh, Hercule. I was hoping … I was hoping … "

Poirot pulled back and captured her lovely mouth with his own, relishing the softness of her lips and the tender play of her tongue against his. God, how he had missed this woman! She whimpered low in her throat, the sound making the heat rise in his body and he crushed her closer, pushing his hips against hers so she could feel his hard cock, so she would know the extent of his interest.

"No, it's all right to judge me, Hercule." Joceline looked up at him. "But it's not all right to shut me out. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"Later." He murmured, bending to kiss her again. This time, he let his hands roam over her back, his hands curving in to cup her breasts.

She trembled in her arms, her moans muffled by the stroke of his tongue and she shook again when his fingers slid under the folds of her robe to find her heated flesh. "Hercule." His lips started at her throat, his hands pushing the garment open as he went, coasting over her perfumed slopes until he reached her knobby nipples. "Oh, yes!" The words slipped from her mouth in an elated gasp as his hot mouth covered her nipple, licking and sucking until she was so hard that it was painful. He kissed across the valley and attacked the other nipple, leaving it in the same state as the other and making her breathless.

Poirot lifted his head, his pulse firing at the lust he read in her dark eyes. "Ma cherie, as much as I want to, we cannot do this here." He pulled the robe closed, retying the sash. "I would not feel comfortable making love to you in this place." He bent and nipped her neck, drawing her gasp. "And I want our time together to be private." A knock sounded on the door and Ellie called out a ten minute warning. "And unhurried."

Joceline nodded, so happy that she couldn't think straight. "Will you be staying for the show?"

"Most assuredly. I have brought Captain Hastings with me so we shall watch the show and then we will all have dinner afterwards."

She stepped closer, sliding her hands under his lapels possessively, her voice teasing and seductive. "And later?"

"We will have dessert." Poirot answered, taking her mouth in a long, deep kiss. "And I will continue where I left off." Picking his hat and cane up from the table, he opened the door, quickly adjusting his stiff prick. "See you later."

"Yes, see you later." Joceline closed the door and leaned against it with a huge smile. Yes, Hercule. I will see you later.